


The wind blows low

by owlaholic68



Series: Noir!AU [3]
Category: Fallout (Video Games), Fallout 2
Genre: Alternate Universe - 1950s, Alternate Universe - Detectives, Detective Noir, Gen, Implied/Referenced Character Death, Spooky, Supernatural Elements
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-03-04
Updated: 2018-03-08
Packaged: 2019-03-26 16:51:23
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 3
Words: 6,720
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13861875
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/owlaholic68/pseuds/owlaholic68
Summary: Private detectives aren’t supposed to chase far-fetched tales. They aren’t supposed to believe in ghost stories.But sometimes, just sometimes, those stories turn out to be true.





	1. Carla gets spooked

A harsh wind rattles the skeletons of trees along the sides of the suburban road.

It rattles Carla’s teeth too, and she rubs her arms, wishing she had brought a heavier jacket, anything heavier than her old wool cardigan, a faded grey sweater with elbows worn thin from use. But it wasn’t supposed to get this cold; it was late spring, the evening of May 14. But her watch read 11:46 at night, the sun having set long ago. 

She stops the car and turns it off, the comforting hum of the vehicle abruptly cutting off, leaving her alone in the silence. This neighborhood is quiet. No lights are on in the houses, no dogs are barking in the picket-fence yards. 

The quietest house of all is the one across the street. A two-story, modest but well-kept, despite it having been abandoned for the last two years, according to her sources. From here, she can see that the gate in front of it is swinging open, but the front door is closed. 

Carla swallows hard, grabs her purse and detective notebook, and gets out of the car, closing the door behind her. She wonders if taking this unusual case was worth it. 

* * *

“We’re not ghost hunters, Carla,” Marcus says. 

“I know, I know,” she says, tapping her fingers on Marcus’ desk. “But you know me, I have a feeling about this one.” 

Marcus frowns. “The last time you said that-” 

“You don’t need to remind me,” Carla says, curtly. It’s only been a month since the fiasco that was her Enclave investigation, and she still hasn’t been able to stop checking over her shoulder every few minutes, still paranoid that someone, somewhere, is going to take revenge. “But this is a different feeling this time. Like there’s something more here, something that can’t just be a case of the heebie-jeebies.” 

“If you insist,” Marcus says. “But there could be a multitude of other explanations. Kids messing around, stray animals, or just this real estate agent has had one too many, you know?” 

She folds up the letter she had received, shoving it back into her notebook. “Well, in that case, I guess I’ll find out, won’t I?” 

* * *

An unsellable house, the real estate agent had said. Carla thumbs through her notebook to find the letter, skimming the important parts once again and verifying the address before crossing the street. 

Cozy suburban home, in a very nice neighborhood, with all of the modern amenities of American life. The only problem? It was apparently haunted, and nobody wanted to buy it. The real estate agent, Gerald Ananias, had contacted Carla privately to figure out what was really going on. 

The supposed hauntings had happened at exactly midnight, and had lasted for about an hour. She checks her watch. 11:50. 

The overgrown grass is soft under her loafers, a sensible shoe choice that she’s already appreciating. The gate creaks, an eerie squeak that sets her on edge. She walks up the front steps and turns the handle on the door, finding it unlocked as Gerald had said it would be. The entry hallway is completely dark. 

Thankfully, she brought a flashlight. It clicks on, illuminating the space in front of her, almost too-bright to her eyes, which had started adjusting to the inky blackness of this moonless May night. 

11:55. Carla quickly jogs through the house, peeking under tables and into closets in search of something, any clue that could help her. 11:57, and she has nothing. No signs of unruly kids making trouble, no signs of any sort of props that could cause the disturbances mentioned by Gerald and by the neighbors. 11:59. She holds her breath. 

A clock chimes, deafeningly loud, from the area of the living room, where an impressively ornate grandfather clock was chiming the hour. When the peals of the bells fade, Carla hears something. 

She  _ thinks  _ she hears something. There’s nothing here. Carla, at this moment, standing where she is in the living room, doesn’t believe in ghosts. Not yet. 

A voice upstairs. Carla swallows hard and grabs the bannister, putting one foot on the smooth staircase. 

“Hello? Is anyone there?” she calls out. Her flashlight shakes. She takes another step up the stairs. 

“Oh, it burns!” a female voice shrieks. Carla jumps. She runs up the stairs and stops just in front of the door to the master bedroom. A faint light shines from under the door. She steels herself and turns the handle, pushing the door open. She’s a detective. This is her job. Nothing’s going to happen that she can’t explain. 

A woman is standing in the middle of the room. No, not a woman. A ghost. Carla gasps. 

She’s dressed in a frilly conservative gown, ruched bundles of fabric hanging below her waist in a distinctly Victorian style. She’s visible, but just barely, half-transparent and glowing white, faint enough not to blind Carla. She turns her flashlight off.

“Hello? Who are you?” Carla whispers. The woman doesn’t seem to hear her. 

“Where is it?” she yells. This would explain the noises that the neighbors had heard, the reports of unearthly wails and screaming. “I cannot find it! I am lost! Oh…” 

There’s nothing in the room that could be causing this illusion. Carla gathers a scrap of courage and moves to touch the woman, the ghost, and her hand passes right through her. 

“What are you looking for?” Carla asks, her grip tightening on the turned-off flashlight. She’s so close to the woman now, waving her hand back and forth through the specter, trying to find some source of the illusion. 

“My locket!” She wails, then she whirls, staring at Carla like she could see her. “It’s gone. Thief! Thief!” she shrieks, starting forward, her hollow dead eyes boring into Carla’s, just inches from her face. 

Carla jumps and screams, the flashlight falling from her shaking hands onto the carpet, rolling beneath the bed. All of her conviction fails her, and she turns and runs for the door, slamming it shut behind her and sprinting down the hallway. She almost trips going down the stairs in the dark. She doesn’t stop until she’s out the front door and panting with her hands on her knees in the front yard. 

Her heart is pounding, and she risks a glance over her shoulder. Nothing’s following. In the window of the house, she can see the ghost walking around the room, an unearthly screaming coming from the house. 

There has to be an explanation. Carla fast-walks to her car, starting it, the motor turning on with reassuring growl. Carla looks back at the house before driving away. 

The window is empty.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Inspired by a quest I recently played in Fallout 2. If you don't want to be spoiled, don't look it up! Also, Gerald Ananias is based off a FO2 character (the last name, not the first one) involved in this quest.


	2. Carla gets spooked again

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The gang gets a frighten.

In the morning, Carla feels very silly. And very tired, having not slept a wink since getting home from her night-time adventure. 

She yawns, running a hand through her hair, before turning her attention to the heavy tome in front of her. Records of this neighborhood of San Francisco, details about home ownership and births, death certificates and marriage ceremonies. It goes back to the mid-1800s, just after the gold rush. She hopes it’s early enough, though she had guessed, judging by the style of clothing the (ghost!) woman had been wearing, that she should focus on the early 1900s, at the very latest. 

After a half an hour of searching, she thinks she finds something. A picture of the house, maybe, dated 1906. It looks smaller in this photograph, but part of the current house looks like it might be an extension. What piques Carla’s interest is a newspaper clipping from a few years later, pasted right underneath the photo. 

> TRAGIC TRAIN ACCIDENT, FOUR KILLED AND SEVENTEEN INJURED. 
> 
> On December 13, a tragic accident on the Geary streetcar line resulted in seventeen injuries and four fatalities. We are sorry to announce that the four fatalities were the Winslow family, both parents and both daughters. They have been residents of the lower Pacific Heights neighborhood for several years, and will be sorely missed. Funeral services will be held this Saturday. 

Carla jots down the name, noting that the house she’s investigating is in that area. Maybe it’s related, maybe it’s not. She tries to research more about the Winslows, but can’t find much beyond a notice about one of their daughters, Ruth, who had gotten married shortly before the accident. 

The letters are starting to blur together in front of her eyes. Her fingers slip on the slippery archival paper. She rubs her eyes, squeezing them shut and ignoring the burn of sleeplessness. 

“Carla? What are you doing here so early?” 

She jumps, knocking her pencil to the ground. Goris, standing in front of her, immediately apologizes for startling her and picks up her pencil. 

“Sorry, Goris, I’m just jumpy today,” she sheepishly says. “It’s a case, you know how it is.” 

“A late night case, I’m guessing? Well, you look dead on our feet and I’ve still got some time until I have to go in to the station. How about we go across the street and get some coffee?” He proposes, and she gratefully takes him up on the offer. 

“What were you doing at the library in the morning?” she asks, wincing at the orangey-red sunlight in her eyes when they exit the building. 

“I teach a beginner class on the French language in the morning,” he admits, throwing his coat over his impeccably proper outfit, a pair of dark dress slacks, a light collared shirt, and a gray sweater vest to combat the spring chill. His glasses are polished and his hair is perfectly in place despite the rough breeze. 

Next to him, Carla feels even more disheveled and out of sorts. She’d quickly changed out of her outfit from last night and into a light dress, but had kept the same faded cardigan and shoes, not bothering to even change into stockings, the cool wind blowing across the backs of her bare knees. Her hair was uncombed, some pieces fluffing up like it did in humid weather, sticking to her cheeks, coarse strands like black brush strokes across her freckled skin. 

But Goris has seen her at her worst, even worse than this, so she manages to shake her self-conscious feeling.

At the cafe, she gulps down a cup of bitter coffee and nibbles at a bagel that Goris had insisted she eat. He delicately and methodically tears apart an almond croissant as Carla tells him, hesitantly, about the case, worried that it sounds unbelievable. 

Halfway through her story, the cafe door opens and Goris perks up, looking over Carla’s shoulder at the entrance. 

“Len!” he calls out, waving one hand. 

Lenny is smartly dressed as always, a slick raincoat over his bright white lab coat. He turns at Goris’ voice, smiling brightly and joining them at their booth, the wrinkled leather seat crinkling as he sits. 

“You l-look terrible, C-Carla,” he says, accepting a cup of tea from the waitress with a grateful nod, “what’s w-wrong?” 

Sighing, she begins her story again. It’s not that she doesn’t appreciate the help. It’s that whenever something brings the three of them together, it always turns serious. And she has a feeling that this case is going to be no different. 

Predictably, both of them want to come with her that night to see this supposed ghost for themselves. They decide to meet up later, around sunset, so they can thoroughly investigate the house before midnight. 

“Now g-go take a nap,” Lenny says, putting an arm around her shoulders. She starts to protest, but is cut off by a yawn. 

“I’ll see you later, then,” she agrees. “And don’t forget to bring flashlights.” She looks out the window at the gathering storm clouds. “And probably an umbrella too.” 

* * *

Carla frowns at her watch. 9:44. She glares at the sky, huddled under a large black umbrella. The wind whips at her raincoat, her rain boots keeping most of the moisture out. She checks her watch again, but the time hasn’t changed. 

Across the street, she hears voice from a park. Male voices, but not the ones she expects. She squints into the darkness, the gloom of the storm clouds and the sheets of rain making it hard to see. Three or four men, who couldn’t have been much older than her, tumble and monkey about in the park, leaving the enclosed playplace to gallivant on the slippery sidewalks, pushing each other into puddles and kicking water around. 

She ducks behind a tree for no particular reason. She would just prefer that they didn’t see her, alone in a strange front yard in the night. 

A couple of names stick out, shouted in faux-anger and peals of laughter: Joey, Eliza, David, names barely audible above the splash of the rain on her umbrella. Soon, they pass, going back down the otherwise quiet street. 

The roar of a car engine, which stops in front of the house and turns off. She peeks around the tree, recognizing the two silhouettes, one hulking, one slight, that exit the car. She waves to them, and they wave back. Then they huddle under one large umbrella, the beam of a single flashlight cutting through the rain as they walk up to her. 

“I broke my umbrella yesterday,” Goris admits, explaining the shared umbrella. 

“And I s-swear I’ve got a fl-flashlight, but I j-just couldn’t find it,” Len laments. 

Carla leads the way into the house, finding everything as she’d left it yesterday. “That’s alright. Mine should still be in here.” 

Now that she’s not alone, the house seems a little less scarier. She pauses and glances at the grandfather clock, an antique that is probably as old as the house. The living room is nearly empty, except for that clock and a low table. The floor is a smooth wood, dark. 

“Queen Anne victorian style,” Goris remarks, tracing the decorative molding around a doorway. He stops. “Did you try the electricity?” 

Now Carla feels  _ really  _ silly. “No,” she admits. “Go ahead.” 

The lights click on. All three of them breathe a sigh of relief, Lenny turning off his flashlight and putting it into the pocket of his raincoat. Now, they can really explore. It’s almost ten o’clock: they have two hours. 

Since they have so much time, they stick together. There’s no point splitting up when they could all see clues together, or at least that’s what Carla tells herself. If she was honest, though, there’s still something about the house that seems off, not quite right, almost like she’s being watched. 

A low rumble of thunder from outside, and the three of them look towards the window, where the storm outside is still going strong. 

They start on the ground floor, poking through kitchen cabinets and closets, all of them empty. There’s a long dining table and four chairs, high-backed and made out of dark wood. Three of them are pushed into the table, one is slightly askew and further away. 

The second floor is much more confined, narrow hallways and cozy bedrooms. Carla retrieves her flashlight from under the master bedroom’s bed, clicking it on and off once, just to make sure it still works. 

“This is where I saw her.” Carla points at the middle of the room, right next to the bed. They poke under rugs and behind closet doors, but none of them can find anything that could cause an illusion, especially one that seemed so real. Goris and Lenny also confirm her observation that no one seemed to be in the house. There’s a thin layer of dust on all of the furnishings. 

There are two other smaller bedrooms down the hallway and two bathrooms. It’s just past 11 o’clock when Lenny grabs Carla’s and Goris’ arms, nodding up at something on the ceiling. 

“Did y-you go up into the a-attic?” he asks. The hatch to the attic is barely visible, especially with the glare from the electric lights. He looks up at Carla, who looks up at Goris, who shrugs and reaches up, easily pulling the ladder down. 

“Good eyes, Len,” Carla says, climbing up the ladder first. She’d changed into an old pair of jeans, stained with paint and ripped from other, more dangerous, detective work. She clambers up the ladder, poking her head into the dusty attic as another peal of thunder growls. The rain is pounding on the metal roof of the attic, drumming in her ears. 

The attic is cramped and dark. She turns on her flashlight, illuminating a few piles of boxes, a broken lamp, and an antique record player. 

“Come on up,” she yells down. Together, they go through boxes, poking through piles of clothing and household supplies, books and knick-knacks. 

Carla’s got her hands in a box of clothing when her fingers hit something hard. She pulls out a diary, leather cover hardened by age, the pages wrinkled and faded. Flowers are stamped on the cover and back, and the diary is secured closed by a ribbon that could have been pink once, but is now a dull beige. When she opens it, curious, a photograph falls out and onto her lap. The paper is thin, the faces washed out by the harsh light of her flashlight. 

She peers at the people in the picture. Four people, two adults and two young women in front of a house identical to the one she’s in right now, minus the garage extension and part of the western wing. 

What  _ really  _ catches her attention is one of the young women. Something about the dress, the hairstyle, or the way she was standing. 

“Come look at this,” she whispers, showing the photo to Goris and Lenny. “I know it sounds crazy, but the women on the right looks like her.” She turns over the photo, reading the writing on the back. “October 23, 1907. Our new house! Mom, Dad, Ruth, and Anna (me!).” 

“Ruth, wasn’t that one of the Winslow daughters?” Goris asks, frowning at the photograph over Carla’s shoulder.

“It’s the r-right time too,” Lenny remarks. 

Carla hands him the photograph, flipping through the rest of the diary. It’s 11:36. 

There’s a hole in the middle of the diary, edges ragged, like someone had cut through the pages inexpertly with a dull knife. It’s about a half an inch deep, directly in the center of the paper. Carla frowns, skimming the entry on the opposite page. 

> April 23, 1907. My eighteenth birthday was today! After a party at the Grayson’s mansion, Mom and Dad gave me this gold locket. I’m worried about losing it, since it’s so pretty, so I cut out a spot in my diary so I can keep it safe.

The locket. Carla shivers. That’s what the ghost was looking for, that’s what she was screaming about someone stealing. It’s connected. It has to be. The ghost of this woman, this Anna Winslow, is haunting this house, and it’s all connected to that locket. 

A boom of thunder, a crack of lightning, and the three of them jump despite themselves, despite every rational part of their brains telling them that this house was  _ not  _ haunted. It’s 11:46. 

“We’d better put all of this back where we found it,” Carla says. She’s not normally superstitious, but something about this diary with its empty hole where a locket should be, and a worn photograph of people who died years before she was born, and a ghostly woman yelling about stolen things, it makes her want to make sure that she leaves nothing behind, takes nothing with her. 

They go back downstairs to wait, the noise of the rain dulling slightly when Goris pushes the trapdoor of the attic closed. Their plan is to wait in the master bedroom until midnight, to watch whatever happens, if something happens at all. 11:55. They wait five minutes in silence, listening to the rain and the house, which creaks and groans like every spooky house does when you’re there in the middle of the night waiting for a ghost to appear. 

Downstairs, the clock chimes. As soon as the first bell booms through the house, Carla holds her breath, waiting for the woman to appear in front of her. Instead of that, though, something else happens. 

The lights cut out. 

Lenny gasps, and Carla, in the sudden darkness, hears his back hit the door to the bedroom. She reminds herself not to panic, reaching for her flashlight. But before she can turn it on, a flash of lightning lights up the room, glinting off Goris’ glasses, letting Carla know that he’s still standing next to the window. 

The ghost is there, between one blink of her eyes and the next, standing in the center of the room next to the bed, mere feet from Carla. She starts wailing like she did last time, repeating the same words. 

From the faint light of her glow, Carla makes her way towards the door, feeling along the wall. 

“C-C-Carla,” Lenny whispers, his eyes wide. He grabs her hand, and she squeezes it.

“I can’t believe it, but it seems as if you weren’t just seeing things,” Goris admits, boldly walking through the center of the room to join them, almost touching Anna’s ghost. Carla can see that’s he’s keeping outwardly calm, but when he takes her other hand, it’s shaking. 

“She’s not moving through the furniture,” Carla remarks, breathing slowly to keep a clear head. “Except for, look, the radiator. And she’s stopping in a weird spot, maybe there used to be a fireplace there before.” 

Anna’s ghost bends down and her hand moves through the drawer handle of the bedside table. “Where is it? Mom? Dad? Where is everyone?” 

“A-Anna?” Lenny asks, voice cracking. Like the last time, the ghost doesn’t respond. 

Carla forces herself to keep looking at the ghost. “The light is even, it’s not coming from any one spot, and it’s not coming from any sort of outside source.” Speaking aloud is making her feel better. 

Anna’s ghost whips her head around at the door, her soulless eyes staring at the three of them. 

“Thief! Thief!” She shrieks, walking towards them. Goris stiffens against Carla’s shoulder, his grip tightening on her hand. Lenny presses himself against her side, his free hand on the door handle. “Get out!” Anna screams, running forward and outstretching one hand to point directly at Carla. 

Lightning strikes again. The lights flicker on, then off, then on again before all power in the old house dies completely, a boom of thunder shaking the floor under their feet, the ghost in front of them glowing even brighter as her mouth opens into a ghostly wail, eyes bright white. 

“Maybe we should just-” 

“Let-let’s j-just go-” 

“Come on,” Carla yelps, turning towards the door. Lenny throws it open, and Goris leads the way down the stairs. Lenny fumbles for their flashlights, another crash shaking the entryway. 

They stumble out the front door and into the pouring rain, Goris holding an umbrella over their heads. Carla looks over her shoulder at the house, where the ghost can be seen in the window, just like last time. Now out of the house, it seems a little less scary. All the same, they edge away from the front door and back towards their cars, still holding hands like they’re worried that one of them will get separated if they let go. 

“Let’s just go home,” Carla shouts, fighting to be heard over the rain. “We can meet up tomorrow.” 

“Y-Yeah,” Lenny agrees, almost too quiet to be heard. “Are y-you going to be a-alright sleeping alone, C-Carla?” 

Despite her pounding heart, she cracks a smile. That’s not Lenny trying to be protective, that Lenny saying that  _ he  _ doesn’t want to sleep alone. “Maybe we’d better stick together, just in case,” she suggests. 

“I’ll follow you home in my car,” Goris says. “I might as well stay too, just in case. We all need our sleep.” 

But none of them were to get any sleep that night, despite their best efforts. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The title is actually a play on words with the name Winslow. I believe that the running theory is that Anna Winslow was killed when the bombs fell in the Fallout canon, which would explain her fire-related dialogue.   
> April 23 is my birthday, and October 23 is the date the bombs fell in the Fallout timeline. 
> 
> This is turning into a really spooky story! Next chapter will be less spooks, but more illegal activity!


	3. Carla spooks someone

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> A happy ending. Warning for mild language.

The next morning finds them in various states of sleeplessness.

Carla rubs her eyes, sprawled out across her couch. She yawns and pets Dogmeat, who has jumped up next to her and put his paws across across her legs. She can hear rushing water from the bathroom, which means that Lenny is up and moving, likely taking a shower to try and chase away his exhaustion. Goris is on the phone.

“I am afraid that I will not make it in to work today, Marcus,” he says, then does a very obviously fake cough. “I am not feeling well.”

Carla can hear the heavy disappointed sigh on the other end. Goris winces, shooting Carla a guilty glance.

“Yes, I am at Carla’s apartment. No, I was not aware that you tracked every call that came into the station,” he admits. Then another grimace, the bags under his eyes making him look like a very tired Frankenstein. “Yes, Len is here too. Alright. I understand, Marcus. Alright. Goodbye.”

Lenny comes out of the bathroom, yawning and rubbing his eyes, bumping into the couch. “What-what’s going on?”

“We have the day off work,” Goris says. He shuffles his bare feet. “I inadvertently informed Marcus of the situation.”

Len just stares at him, his hair askew. “Goris, y-you were a special a-agent. How could y-you not lie to M-Marcus about something s-so simple?”

Goris gives him a look. “I am not about to lie to _Marcus_. And since he is aware of our situation now, we have more leeway to act. We have the entire day to investigate.” He turns to Carla. “Where should we begin?”

“Coffee,” she groans. “Just coffee. And I know I forgot to buy some last week, so we’re going to need to go somewhere. I saw a diner down the street from the house. Maybe we can get information and coffee at the same time, kill two birds with one stone.”

* * *

The diner, thankfully, is open for breakfast, and the trio shuffles in, looking half-dressed and honestly not caring about it like they normally would.

Carla is in the same pair of roughed-up jeans from the night before, a fresh blouse lazily half-tucked in, one sleeve rolled up and the other one slowly becoming unrolled. A kerchief over her head partially conceals the fat chunks of coarse black hair that have puffed up and tangled every which way, wavy but not curly.

“Three black coffees, please.” Goris orders for them. Once the waitress, an older woman that also seems to be the owner, nods, he takes off his thick glasses and almost drops them, pulling out a handkerchief to start polishing them. Carla doesn’t think she’s seen Goris look this ruffled, and he’s the best-looking out of all of them this morning. Since he and Lenny had both crashed at her place in their work clothes, and both of them didn’t have any other clothing to change into, Goris was still in his dress slacks, though they were wrinkled, and the left hem was accidentally tucked into the edge of his socks. He’s wearing the white t-shirt that was underneath his dress shirt from the day before, but without said dress shirt, only his sweater vest on top, his coat thrown over his shoulders.

“And a-a-a plate of p-pancakes, two plates of w-w-waffles, please,” Lenny adds, half-slumped against Carla’s shoulder. His messed up hair is tickling her neck, but she doesn’t have the energy to push him off. He’s also in his dress slacks, though he’d abandoned every pretense of formality by rolling them up to capri length. He’s wearing one of Carla’s old t-shirts, his muddy raincoat making his overall look even stranger, since the skies were clear that morning.

“Rough night?” The woman nervously teases, her eyes avoiding the three of them, an odd group: an unmarried woman and two young unmarried men, all too old to be college students, and Carla can see her mentally jumping to conclusions.

“You could say so,” Carla takes the lead in replying. She shows the woman her police badge.  “Private Detective Carla, these are my two associates. I’d like to ask you a few questions, if you don’t mind.”

The woman’s face shows a mixture of worry and relief. “Yes, that’d be fine. Let me put your order in real quick first. My name’s Susan, but you can just call me Mom, everyone ‘round here does.”

After Mom puts in their order with the cook, Goris scoots over in the booth so she can join them in a more informal setting. Goodness knows they’re informal enough already.

“We’re investigating the house down the street. Do you know anything about it, who lived there before, if you’ve seen anything suspicious? Any information could help our investigation.”

“That old haunted house?” Mom asks. “Well, nobody’s lived in it for the last two years, now. That poor real estate agent has been trying so hard to sell it. Last folks to own it were a group of those rowdy boys from the college downtown.” She sighs. “A load of troublemakers. The worst one was named Johnny or Joseph, Joel, something like that. Big kid with long hair, leather jacket, you know the type. Don’t know why they moved out so sudden, but I’m not complaining.”

“And that is when these haunted occurrences started happening?” Goris puts air quotes around the word “haunted”, though all three of them know that there’s no need. They know now that the house _is_ haunted. But in this warm diner at 9 o’clock on a Thursday morning, they can almost pretend that the night before was just a scary dream.

Mom nods. “That’s right. Dreadful thing, noises all night, weird lights. I hope you folks can fix the problem. Would help us all sleep easier at night.”

“Well, Ma’am, we’ll try our best,” Carla promises. “Thank you for your help.” Mom gets up and brings them their coffee and food, leaving them alone to eat. Lenny digs into his pancakes, Goris and Carla eating their waffles, all three of them yawning into their coffee cups.

“Maybe we c-could go visit the c-cemetery,” Lenny suggests. “Try and f-find her grave.”

“That would be nice. We could bring flowers. I bet nobody’s brought flowers to her grave in such a long time. Maybe it would make her ghost less angry at us.” Carla’s honestly not sure how to proceed in her investigation. The most obvious path is to try and find the people who lived in the house before the hauntings started, but she doesn’t really know who they could be. The cemetery is as good an idea as any.

They finish their food, pay, and say goodbye to Mom. Carla, still in a daze, the caffeine from the coffee not kicking in quite yet, runs into someone in the doorway of the cafe.

“Hey, watch it, baby.” The man she runs into shoves Carla to the side, making her stumble. In a flash, she recognizes that voice as being from one of the ruffians she’d seen last night by the house.

She grabs his wrist and twists it, stomping on his foot. “ _You_ watch it, asshole. Don’t call me baby and don’t touch me like that again.”

“Whoa, Joey, you’ve got a fighter,” one of the greaser guys behind him said. There are two tough-looking but short men dressed in leather jackets and with slicked-back hair. “Maybe she wants to rattle with ya.”

Goris comes to Carla’s side, looming over Joey and the others. She’s glad of his company. Lenny hangs back next to the door, trying to look less nervous than he is.

“Joey, huh?” Carla’s eyes narrow. It could just be a coincidence, but someone with that kind of name who lived in the area and seemed to cause trouble...She might have the answer to her mystery right in front of her. “Do you believe in _ghosts_ , Joey?”

He flinches. “Whoa, sister, t-the fuck you talkin’ about?”

She’s too tired for this shit. “That haunted house, you know the one. You used to live in it, until a _spooky_ ghost came and sent you running like a candy ass. All because you stole a little gold locket from the attic.”

“I-I don’t know what you’re talkin’ about,” he stammers, very obviously knowing _exactly_ what she was talking about.

“Oh, such a tragedy, a dead girl’s spirit can never rest, left to roam this earth until she finds what _you_ stole,” Carla ratchets up the spookiness, opening her eyes wide and leaning in close to Joey, getting up in his face and letting him see the sleepless frustration in her eyes. “And if you don’t return it now, she’ll come after you, hunting without ever stopping, until she _finds you_ and exacts her revenge-”  

Joey fumbles in one of his pockets, throwing her a small gold necklace. “Fine, j-just take it! I don’t know w-what I saw, thought it was just a crazy trip, just leave me alone!”

She backs off, locket in hand. “Gladly. Now scram.” She lets them walk past her and into the cafe, all of them shooting anxious glances over their shoulders at her.

“That was by far the most terrifying thing I have ever borne witness to,” Goris comments as they walk to the car. “And I saw a ghost last night.”

Carla’s turning over the locket in her hands. “Thanks for the compliment. But what should we do now? Anna’s ghost isn’t going to be there until midnight, and we’ve got all day.” She looks back at Lenny, who climbs into the backseat, leaning against the headrest and stretching. “How about we go visit the cemetery. Then I think we’re all due for a nap.”

“Why e-even bother going back to y-your place, C-Carla,” Lenny says. “We should j-just park the car and s-sleep in it.”

“And that’s why you’re on this team, Len,” Carla teases, turning towards the city cemetery. “You’ve got the greatest ideas.”

* * *

When they wake up from their well-deserved nap, it’s just past three. Carla checks her watch, careful not to move around too much and wake her companions.

She’s sitting in the middle of the backseat, legs propped up on the center console, shoes off and discarded somewhere on the bottom of the car. Lenny is on her right, curled up with his feet on the seat, his head pillowed into her shoulder. Goris is on her left in a similar position, except that his gangly legs are stretched across her lap, his gray-socked feet on Lenny’s seat. His glasses are on the dashboard, refracting the afternoon sun into a pastel rainbow that floods the steering wheel.

She lets them sleep. They’ve got plenty of time.

* * *

The grandfather clock chimes, twelve strokes, midnight on a warm Thursday night. This time, they’re as ready as they can be, clustered by the door to the master bedroom. Carla’s put the locket on the bed. The last thing she wants to do is personally hand it to Anna’s ghost, touching the unearthly presence with her hands again.

Right on time, the lights of the house cut out, and the ghost appears.

“Where is it-oh!” Anna’s ghost calms down upon seeing the locket. She scoops it up in her transparent hands, cradling it to her chest. “Oh, my locket, my locket!” She turns, her form starting to fade. “Mom, Dad, I’m coming! I’m coming, Ruth!”

Carla holds her breath as Anna fades even more, until the ghostly light that she emitted is gone, leaving the room in total darkness before the lights flicker back on.

“C-C-Carla,” Lenny gasps, his grip tight on her arm. He’s staring down at the floor where Anna’s ghost was standing, eyes wide. There’s a sharp intake of breath from her other side from Goris.

“Our work might not be done quite yet,” he whispers.

There’s a pile of bones on the floor, on top of the innocuous blue rug covering the wooden floorboards.

Carla swallows hard. “Good thing we visited her grave today. We already know where to bury her.”

* * *

The cemetery is one of the older ones in Colma, twenty minutes away by car, especially at this late hour when no other car is on the road, especially not in a graveyard town.

It’s just the four of them: Carla, Lenny, Goris, and the bag of bones in the trunk, like Anna’s ghost is still with them even in repose. They’d also found two shovels in the garage of the house, and had thrown those in the trunk too. They rattle around when Carla takes an exit from the highway and into the sleepy suburb of San Francisco.

Goris points out the sign for the graveyard they’re looking for, and Carla parks the car. They get out and stand around the trunk.

“I can’t believe we’re even doing this,” Carla fiercely whispers. She winces and unlocks the trunk. “This is the most illegal thing I’ve ever done. We’re with the _police_ , for God’s sake, and we’re about to dig up a grave. Let’s just get this over with.”

Lenny takes the shovels from the trunk, presumably so he doesn’t have the carry the bones. Goris takes one for the team and hefts the heavy bag. Carla has a flashlight.

They’d visited Anna Winslow’s grave earlier that day, so it was only a matter of retracing their steps along the soft grass, peering at the names on the gravestones in the dim light of the flashlight, Carla’s sleeve kept over the light so it wasn’t too bright. Finally, they see it, a small bouquet of flowers sitting in front of the engraved stone from their earlier visit.

A dog howls and the three of them guiltily jump. Carla flicks the flashlight off, shoving it into her pocket. She takes one shovel from Lenny, who hands the other one to Goris. In the faint light of the waning crescent moon, they dig, Lenny switching out with Carla when she gets tired.

“I think this is adequately deep,” Goris says, wiping his brow, standing in the waist-deep hole. Carla lowers the bag of bones down to him, wincing at the rattle. Together, the three of them spread the bones in the hole before climbing out and starting the arduous task of refilling the grave.

Finally, they’re done, covered in grime and even more exhausted than before. They grimly begin the long trek back to Carla’s car, shovels thrown over their shoulders, feeling more like grave-robbers than justice-doers.

“It’s too late for you to drive back home,” Carla comments as the downtown lights come into view. “You two might as well stay over again.”

“I a-agree. Let’s just not tell M-Marcus about this p-part, okay?” Lenny says, now in the front seat, the streetlights making his skin look pale and washed out. “For now, t-though, I a-actually feel like I c-can sleep.”

And they do. As soon as they get back to Carla’s apartment at just past two o’clock in the morning, tiptoeing around a sleeping Dogmeat, they’re asleep before their heads hit the pillows.

* * *

“So, ghosts.” Marcus folds his arms.

“I know, I know,” Carla says. “But we all saw it. At least it’s gone now. When we gave her the locket, the ghost just disappeared.”

Goris approvingly hums, and Lenny nods along, both men flanking Carla’s chair in the intimate office. Not a lie, just an omission of the following events. All three of them are back to their normal professional dress and well-maintained hygiene regimens.

“Well,” Marcus sighs, “if you insist. At least the case is solved, and no further ‘hauntings’ will occur. And Goris, Lenny, I’m giving you leave to miss work to accompany Carla on cases, as long as you warn be beforehand.”

Carla crosses her legs, the feeling of nylon stockings reminding her that everything’s returned to normal now. She never thought she’d miss wearing stockings, but she’s been running around in rough jeans and with hair in her face for two days: a little fanciness never hurt. “Do you have another case for me, Marcus?”

He warmly smiles. “Oh, I certainly do.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> It's my personal headcanon that Goris used to be a secret agent that got sick of the violent life and settled down to be a code-breaker. 
> 
> The history of cemeteries in San Francisco is a little creepy. Thankfully, Anna Winslow died in 1908 in this story, so they were actually able to find her grave, since she would have been originally buried in Colma. 
> 
> Thanks for reading! Now, if you play Fallout 2, you'll also know exactly how to do the related quest that you can get in the Den!


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